Page 19 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

It sours my stomach, the thought of these so-called noblemen and women—draped in silks and velvets so fine that Mother and Vella would have difficulty deciding which to burn first—gambling on women who don’t have a choice.

It’s abhorrent.

"Easy," Ashera soothes. "Don’t show those pretty teeth yet."

I exhale slowly, letting go of the acrid burn of their hypocrisy.

For now .

"Now, if you please, make room for the Six Kings of the Continent."

The crowd parts, widening around the silver circle of inlaid script—the same one I arrived on. The space yawns open, a void at the heart of the room.

Of course, the kings wouldn’t bother with something as human as walking through a ballroom.

Except Tyr and Lorien had at the banquet.

A display of power, then. A performance.

"I will remind you, for those humans who have not yet seen our kings," the woman continues, "if you need to excuse yourself to the privy, please do so quietly and calmly."

A flicker of amusement sparks under my unease.

If the sight of a few kings unsettles them, they could simply…not look.

The air shifts. Thickens. Presses in, dense and suffocating.

Ashera shudders, gooseflesh rising along her arms. "Oooh, our king has his power on display."

Not just one king. All of them.

"They’re definitely here," Emile purrs, voice sinking into something sultry.

Footsteps. Fast. Fading.

Running.

I catch the muffled hitch of a sob. Another pair of footsteps. Pounding. Desperate.

Apparently, not everyone knows to avert their gaze.

I would think it instinctual—a defense mechanism, a fundamental human reaction. But clearly, I overestimated them.

"And now," Emile murmurs, "we wait."

I focus, leaning toward the ballroom’s center, trying to hear when the first potential is called .

"Don’t bother," Ashera murmurs. "They don’t amplify potentials’ voices. Only the councilwoman’s. And the kings’, should they deign to speak."

Noted. Disorient them. Isolate them. Strip them of all bearings before presenting them like lambs.

"When will they call the first potential?"

Ashera leans in, her breath cool against my ear. "They already have."

I blink. "But I didn’t hear anything?—"

"You won’t," she whispers. "You’ll simply appear before them. Present yourself. And appear back in the crowd."

That...

That’s awful.

Not knowing when I’ll be summoned. Just waiting. The dread pressing into my ribs, sitting there like a weight until?—

I must give something away in my expression, because Ashera squeezes my arm. "Don’t worry. They won’t hurt you. They can’t. You’re a potential."

"I’m not worried about tha?—"

The words dry in my throat as the world drops out from under me.

One moment, Ashera’s cool skin is pressed against my arm.

The next?—

Ancient. Decaying. A dying god who refuses to yield.

He is both gaunt and regal, silver eyes set deep into his skull, burning like distant stars. His arms and chest are cracked with old wounds, the skin like parched clay, barely holding together.

I lower my lashes, dipping my head as I fight not to succumb to his presence. His power.

His inevitability .

I bow. Deep. Lower than I’ve bowed to anyone. Lower than instinct says is safe.

When I rise, I extend a hand.

He takes my forearm instead. Not the hand I offered.

And a wall of power crashes into me.

It nearly takes me to my knees.

My gaze flashes up—but the power’s not from the withered king before me, but someone else.

And then, as suddenly as it came, the power vanishes.

The loss is almost worse than the impact. The absence of it makes me stumble.

"Look at me, girl."

I think better of telling this ancient thing that I am no girl but a fully adult woman. I lift my gaze.

Staring at him is like staring down my own mortality. My eventual rot and ruin.

The inescapable truth that, given enough time, everyone—except perhaps him—is insignificant.

His silver gaze never drops below my chin. But under it, I feel small and naked. Like a wild thing, just discovering the shame of flesh.

"Tell me something."

It’s a command, the magic in his voice sheers against my bones and I swallow down rising nausea.

As soon as they’re able, my lips part, and I’m speaking. "I think you’re the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen."

My own breath betrays me.

My hand claps over my mouth.

The king doesn’t react. Not a twitch. Not a breath. He simply releases me.

And I’m gone.

The weight of the first king still clings to me as I drop into the metallic eddies of another .

The reek of stale blood and burnt bone fills my lungs.

This king was born from war and strife.

Again, I bow. Low. Measured. Respectful.

This one demands a different kind of wariness.

"I am Amara, Your Majesty."

I don’t lift my gaze. I don’t care to see what a king whose magic smells like battlefields looks like.

But his robes tell me enough—stitched with talismans from enemies he’s flayed. Patches of tattooed flesh, sewn with sinuous fiber.

I extend a hand. He takes it—rough, calloused. A warrior’s hand. A butcher’s hand.

I expect it to be slick, sticky even, with blood.

But it’s dry.

His gaze skates down my body. It doesn’t linger. Doesn’t consume. It’s simply… there.

"Tell me something, Amara."

I hesitate as the spell in his words careens through my body.

And before I choose to look up, I already have.

Like he wove a second command under the first.

A grin splits his face, flashing a mouthful of sharpened teeth.

Predatory.

I know, in that instant, he doesn’t merely play at war.

He feasts on it.

"Tell me," he repeats.

Every instinct I have screams to run.

To hide.

To never let this demon king see me flounder.

So I tilt my head, slow, unhurried.

"I bet those teeth of yours don’t do you any favors in the bedroom."

His maw splits wide.

And a keening, cackling laugh shreds through the air?—

And then I’m gone.